


A little something special

by PessoasLily



Series: Crossroads [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Antichrist Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Evil Sam Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Gaslighting, Jealous Dean Winchester, John and Bobby are in prison, M/M, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Possessive Dean Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killer Sam Winchester, Stanford Era, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PessoasLily/pseuds/PessoasLily
Summary: John and Bobby are in prison, sent there by Sam who set them up for his own crimes and their interference with his plans for Dean. Sam likes to kill. He needs Dean to want to kill.As the host of Heaven and the hordes of Hell vie for the Winchesters' souls, Sam does what is necessary to keep Dean close, keep him obedient, and keep him away from the angels. He'll use the one thing that's never failed to keep Dean in line - his obsession with Sam. Even it means making his big brother a little jealous.Sam will burn down Heaven and Hell before he lets them take away Dean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of my Crossroads series. There will be many references to the previous stories in this series, so reading them first is a good idea.

Hunters were dying.

During Bobby Singer’s six months in prison he heard less and less from his contacts in the community. Those that hadn’t turned their back on him out of self-preservation when Sam Winchester hung him out to dry, made a point to visit him whenever they were near South Dakota State Penitentiary. When the flow turned into a trickle, Bobby knew the killing had started again.

He knew several of the guards were demons and that they were reporting back to Sam everything he did. Bobby had assumed Sam had done all the damage he planned to. Bobby was off the board, officially no longer a threat. In for multiple life sentences for killing monsters and saving lives. It happens, sometimes the law catches up and tries to explain something they can't. They see a man with a backyard full of bodies with feathers, fur and fangs they can't explain; it's easier to arrest and convict than look too close.

Still, that wasn’t why hunters were dying. Ultimately, it was because Bobby made the error of thinking he could separate Dean from Sam. 

His attempt to appeal to Dean's humanity might very well be a fatal mistake.

Dean had come to visit him a few times. He apologized for Bobby getting caught up in John's crimes, said he would give anything to have prevented his hunting from being confused with the bad things John was doing. Dean's lies were so believable that he had to take a moment to remind himself Dean had been witness and party to the same crimes John was convicted of.

Trying to reason with Dean, Bobby said, “Dean, you know yer Daddy ain’t got nothin’ to do with those murders. You know it was Sam.”

Dean shook his head. “Stop right there, Bobby. I know you're upset but I won't have you making up lies about my brother.” His face turned soft and proud. “Sammy is a good kid. He’s going to be a lawyer. He said he's going to buy a house and I won't have to hunt anymore.”

Bobby knocked the prison phone against his head, tapped it against the glass that separated them. “Yer lying to yerself, boy. You know yer Daddy ain’t done nothin’ like they say he did. He told me about the murders when Sammy was a kid, the ones you knew about.”

Completely ignoring Bobby, Dean stood up. “I just came to say goodbye, Bobby. Sam doesn’t think I should visit you anymore. After everything you said about him, I think he’s right.” Hanging up the phone, Dean turned and walked to the locked door. He didn’t even look back when a guard let him out.

Bobby held the phone in his hand until a guard came up and pushed him with his baton. “Let’s go, Singer.”

Bobby rose to his feet, let the guard cuff him, and followed him back deeper into the prison. Before he locked Bobby back in his cell, the guard's eyes turned black and he winked.

Then and there Bobby decided he’d stay out of the Winchesters’ business. There were too few hunters left and even from the inside, he could still do some good.

___________________

Dean thumbed his empty wedding ring finger, the unconscious gesture a fond memory of the days when he wore Sam’s ring. He sighed and looked out the window, the midwest skyline darkening as the lights in Baby’s interior began to brighten.

“You miss it,” Sam asked, grabbing Dean’s hand and lacing their fingers together. He turned to look at Dean but Dean kept his attention on the passing landscape. He tugged Dean’s hand to get his attention. “Hey, talk to me.”

“I do,” Dean whispered. “I had it so long. Since,” Dean paused and looked at Sam, his smile small and shy. “Since you know when.”

Sam nodded and returned his attention to the road. “I can get you another one. Let you pick it this time.”

“Do you mean pick the person,” Dean asked. “Pick the one you take it from?” That made Dean nervous and he loosened his grip. Sam rubbed his thumb over Dean’s quickening pulse.

“I do. Would you like that?” Sam knew Dean would do anything he asked, the days of fighting over Sam’s kills long behind them. Still, he wanted Dean to want it too, to share in his bloodlust. It would take time but Sam was patient.

“I think…” Dean started, ducked his head. “If that would make you happy, I’d really like that.”

Sam sighed. Still so much work to do.

“I want it to make you happy, Dean. If you really don’t want to share this with me, you don't have to. I won't force you to do things like John did.” Sam sounded resigned and tried to keep the smile out of his tone.

“No,” Dean protested. “I do. I really do. I’m just scared. After what happened to Dad.” Dean’s voice trailed off and Sam tightened his fingers. He did not want Dean thinking about his father.

Sam growled. “What happened to John is his own fault. I told him to stay away from you.”

“I know, Sammy. Please don’t be mad.” He sounded small and it made Sam hard. He couldn’t wait to get home and fuck him. He lifted Dean’s hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss against his fingers.

“I’m not mad, sweetheart.” He tugged at Dean’s hand again and Dean looked up, his eyes bright. “Forget about John, ok. He won’t bother us anymore.”

Sam returned his eyes to the road and heard Dean’s contented sigh. “Ok. I won’t.”

Returning to the topic he really wanted to discuss, Sam asked, “So what kind of ring do you want?”

___________________

It took Dean three months before he started really looking at the rings people wore. They were back in Palo Alto, living in a small apartment just off campus. Dean liked that it was close to the garage he started working at since Sam started to let him drive Baby short distances. Sam liked it because it meant Dean had something to do besides worry about looking for someone to kill.

When he returned to Stanford, Sam’s advisor made the unfortunate mistake of suggesting he switch majors. The man thought, rather foolishly, that given John’s crimes, prosecuting attorneys might use their relationship to force him to recuse himself. Sam laughed, dumped one of his demons in the man, and had the demon drive his car into a tree. His advisor died on impact and his demon went on his merry way, happy to have a story to tell his friends.

There were other people who tried to interfere with their relationship. Even though Ellen and Jo sided with him against John, they still thought their relationship was odd, described it as “co-dependent”. Sam would have killed them outright but he knew it would upset Dean too much. Dean still clung to the idea that he was a hunter, that he belonged in the hunter community. Sam let him have his delusions and it didn’t hurt having another unwitting eye to keep other hunters in check.

Sam’s ascension was going well. The angels actively worked against him but aside from the pesky archangels and one obsessive seraphim named Castiel, no one posed a real challenge. He liked toying with them, sending them on wild goose chases in search of lore, only to have them return to their superiors with drooping feathers. He knew they wanted Dean, knew that Dean was the key to stopping him but no matter how hard they tried, Sam kept them away.

Sam wasn’t using Dean. He truly cared for him. Keeping him close and under his thumb was as much about the fantastic sex as it was about thwarting his destiny. Sam wouldn’t die, Dean wouldn’t sell his soul and the righteous man would never be freed from hell. It worked out nicely. John was out of the running because Sam made sure he’d live a long and miserable life, in spite of his death sentence.

There was one spanner in the works, one problem that dogged Sam’s footsteps no matter how hard he tried to change it. Dean didn’t like to kill. Oh, he’d pretend. He’d do whatever Sam asked him to do. He’d even participate when it didn’t seem like he had a way out. That wasn’t what Sam wanted. That wasn’t what Sam needed. If Sam was going to keep the angels from taking Dean, he had to scar Dean’s soul. Coming along on a few murders didn’t seem to be doing the trick.

He hoped removing John and Bobby’s influence would help. They were the needle in Dean’s moral compass and their interference in Dean’s life wasn’t limited to direct interaction. It took a while but he convinced Dean visiting Bobby would only cause him pain. Dean asked to visit his father a few times but Sam would just glare and give him the silent treatment for hours. Dean would panic, beg him for forgiveness and promise never to ask again. It would last two months, tops.

Sam needed a new strategy. A better strategy. He needed to play on Dean’s ultimate fear: losing Sam. He knew part of why he so eagerly participated in Jess’ murder was jealousy. Sam just needed to find a target that he could invest some time in, make Dean feel like he had competition. With any luck, Sam wouldn’t even have to give Dean a push.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam had Dean’s legs over his shoulders, his large hands cupping Dean’s ass to hold him open as he fucked inside. They’d been at it for hours and Sam still hadn’t sated his lust. Dean’s face was covered in sweat, spiky hair matted down, stomach covered in come. His chest was flushed and his eyes half-lidded; he was barely conscious. Sam’s surprised he hadn’t passed out.

“So so good, Dean. Such a good boy. Taking my cock like this,” Sam moaned, picking up his pace. Dean had his hands on the headboard above him to slow their slide up and keep him from bumping his head.

“I love you, Sammy,” Dean panted, his breathing labored.

“I know you do,” Sam replied, leaning to steal his breath with a kiss.

Dean obediently opened his mouth. Sam’s thrusts became harder, more precise. Dean’s abused prostate wouldn’t let him come again but Sam wouldn’t relent. Tears poured from the corner of Dean’s eyes and dampened his long eyelashes but he never asked him to stop, never stopped trying to meet Sam’s pace.

“Are you going to come for me again, sweetheart,” Sam whispered. Dean whimpered, palming his spent cock protectively.

“I don’t think I can, Sammy. Please,” Dean pleaded.

Sam smirked but kept fucking. Dean might not be able to come again but he sure as hell could.

___________________

After John’s trial, Sam decided to redirect Dean’s guilty, nervous energy into more enjoyable pursuits. Every time he looked at Sam a little cautiously, Sam would bend him over the nearest piece of furniture and fuck him open until Dean was a weeping, begging mess. Afterwards he’d take Dean to dinner or a movie, something simple and enjoyable. Things regular couples would do. Dean would get this dreamy look in his eyes and Sam would know he had adverted Dean’s meltdown.

His policy about letting Dean come had changed too. Instead of building on Dean’s desperation, he made him come as many times as possible, drowning Dean in sensation. He seemed to be responding well in spite of his near constant overstimulation. He didn’t need to do much work to convince him not to visit Bobby anymore.

Things on the murder front were progressing slowly, however. Too slowly. Sam needed to kill. He needed Dean to want to kill. It was fun knowing Dean would do whatever Sam asked but he needed their bond to be deeper than that. He needed Dean to need to kill as badly as he did.

Sam doesn’t credit his desire to murder on his demon parentage. Being the son of Azazel was just part of what gave him power. What gave him pleasure - that was demonic.

It took him years to come to terms with the fact that their mother had cheated on John with a demon. In his early years, Sam killed mostly out of rage for having been deceived into thinking John was his father and for being forced to remain under his thumb. When Azazel came to get him in his crib when he was six months old, it was John who stopped him. But, as he would later learn, it was Sam who set the nursery on fire. His first kill, though accidental, was his mother.

John would continue to prevent any contact between Sam and his father, though by the time Sam knew who he was, he didn’t really have a need for Azazel.

“Dean, sweetheart,” Sam sing songed, shoving his books into his satchel. 

Dean popped up from the couch where he’d been reading Busty Asian Beauties. Sam internally rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy?”

“I might be a little late tonight. I’m meeting a friend from school for drinks. Don’t wait up.” He bent down and kissed Dean’s forehead and walked out the door.

Dean’s expression made Sam instantly hard; panic and jealousy. Maybe it was only smoke but Sam would nurture it into raging fire. Then Dean would kill all on his own.

___________________

Dean was worried. He wasn’t sure why or if he had a genuine reason to be but something about Sam’s after school date unsettled him. It made him queasy and uncertain. 

He tried every trick in the book to allay his fears. Exercising, listening to music, heading into the garage on his day off to work on an old Ford. He even tried working on a letter to his father even though Sammy had expressly forbid it. But why shouldn’t he contact his dad? It’s not like Sammy was around anyway. Dean wrote the letter and put it in Sammy’s dresser drawer. If Sammy found it when he was undressing after his date, well. So be it.

He texted Sammy a few times throughout the day. Sammy’s responses were always polite but uncharacteristically curt. He told Dean he was in class and that he’d talk with him later that night. Dean frowned at his phone.

Sammy said before he’d never cheat on him. Dean’s not really worried about that. Much. And it’s not like Dean doesn’t want Sammy to have friends. It’s been awhile since Sammy spent anytime with people who weren’t demons.

Yeah, Dean knew about the demons. He’d been a hunter almost his entire life. He’d be embarrassed if he hadn’t noticed. Sammy seemed to be taking his time telling him why he was hanging out with them and Dean was okay with that. He’d just gotten used to the idea that he was okay with Sammy murdering people. He didn’t want to complicate it.

Sammy was complicated enough. Now he was having “drinks with a friend”. Dean glared. Maybe a drive around in Baby would cheer him up. He knew he was only supposed to drive her to and from work but if Sammy couldn’t be bothered to come home, Dean could drive his damn car wherever he wanted.

___________________

Sam got home shortly after midnight. He made sure he smelled like a bar, even though he didn’t drink that much. He bumped into the guy he was with a little too often so he’d pick up a bit of his cologne; it would add to the effect Sam was going for. 

Dean was pretending to sleep and Sam smiled to himself. He noticed Baby was parked in a different position, sort of sideways like Dean wanted him to know he drove her without permission.

Good, Sam thought. Although it was nice having a pliant, accommodating Dean - the sex alone was fantastic - he missed Dean’s fiery personality. The one that challenged him and forced Sam to examine his choices. The one who’d get so pissed he'd throw a punch, wrestle Sam to the ground. The kind of fight that ended in amazing angry sex. He wanted the Dean that would kill for him, that he could fuck unconscious but still retain that passion that made him a great hunter. It’s possible making Dean jealous could serve two purposes. Get him to want to kill and mad enough to fight Sam for his own identity.

Sam’s “friend from class” was really an asshole he barely tolerated named Tyson Brady. He was really a friend of Jess’. Sam knew it was dangerous hunting this close to home, especially now that he didn’t have John to pin it on, but he needed the con to be convincing and Brady was someone Dean knew of but hadn’t met. If Dean got the impression that he was keeping Brady away until now because he had feelings for him...well. Life works in mysterious ways.

Sam began to undress. He opened the drawer where he kept his sleep pants and that’s when he found the letter Dean wrote to John. He was instantly enraged. Dean could act out, he could rebel, but he could not directly disobey him. And he sure as hell couldn’t contact John.

“Dean,” he said, not even bothering to pretend Dean was asleep. “What’s this?” He waved the letter in front of him. He kept his face calm, his smile charming.

Dean paled and sat up quickly. “It’s uh. A letter I was working on. Some stuff I needed to get off my chest. I wasn’t really going to send it, Sammy. I know I’m not supposed to.”

Ah. That’s why he did it. To let Sam know he was unhappy about his social outing. Good. Dean’s pushing back. As long as he doesn’t push back too much, this might be useful. “Oh, I see,” Sam said sadly. “I can understand why you’d want someone else to talk to. I just worry. You know how John feels about me. I’m sure he’d tell you to stay away from me.” Sam let his voice drag a little, “Unless that’s what you want.”

“No,” Dean yelled a little too loudly. He fumbled getting out of bed and Sam had to steady him by the arm. Dean grabbed the letter that Sam was just about to tuck back into the dresser and tore it to shreds. “It didn’t mean anything, Sammy. Honest. Dad doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s only you.” Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s middle and buried his face in his chest. Sam hesitated, for effect, but returned the hug.

“I know I can’t be your everything, Dean. You need other friends. I just don’t want to lose you.” If Dean were in his right mind, he’d smell Sam’s bullshit a mile away. Dean was far too lost in his submission to listen closely. It’s how they lived. It was fun for Sam but it could be dangerous for Dean. Dean needed to be able to read people and his skills were getting rusty. Sam had to find a balance.

“You are,” Dean protested. “No one but you, Sammy. I don’t want anyone or anything but you. I shouldn’t have written that stupid letter. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t be mad, Sammy. I love you.”

_You were thinking you wanted to piss me off_ , Sam thought dryly. 

Sam shushed him and pulled him in closer, leaned back against the dresser and spread his long legs so Dean could slip in between them. Dean refused to let go even as Sam tried to adjust their arms to make the hug more comfortable. “It’s ok, sweetheart. I’m not mad. You know I love you.”

“I love you too, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

Sam ran his fingers through Dean’s hair and giggled when Dean sniffed his shirt. He really did smell like a bar. Their arousal grew as Dean rubbed their hard cocks together. Dean stepped back, gave a shy smile, and went to pull down his sleep pants. Sam stilled his hands.

“Not tonight, baby. I’ve had a long day.” Sam turned but smiled when he heard Dean’s crestfallen sigh. There was never a time Sam did not want sex. He’d bring Dean to class with him if his professors wouldn’t mind having Dean ride his cock during lectures. Sam’s appetite for sex didn’t have long days. But Dean didn’t know that. He only knew Sam was rejecting him and it made him frightened. The thrill of power that ran through Sam’s veins made him feel invincible. Dean made him feel invincible.

“Let me get ready for bed. Then I can tell you all about my night with my friend, Brady.”

Sam could feel Dean’s anger rise. A little bit more kindling. A little bit more oxygen. By the time Sam brought Brady home for dinner he’d be surprised if Brady lasted through drinks.


	3. Chapter 3

John had been in prison 9 months when he met one of Sam’s demons. He was skirting the perimeter of the exercise yard when a group fellow inmates approached. The group, five or six big, muscled men with hard expressions and prison tattoos, was led by the prison’s most infamous serial killer. His crimes paled in comparison to what John had been convicted of, and given his limited understanding of prisoner hierarchy, next to the mob, John was technically at the top of the food chain. Alastair seemed to think differently.

The prisoners parted to give the group a clear path; most of them smart enough not to touch or make eye contact. One misfortunate fool moved so fast to get out of the way that he ended up faceplanting at the feet of one of the goons. The goon kicked the man in the head and kept walking. “Fucking pussy,” he sneered. Blood poured from the man’s wound but no one moved to help and the guards pretended not to notice. Eventually the man crawled away on his hands and knees while the other prisoners hooted and jeered.

This was how John’s day would go.

John tilted his chin up and met the man’s eyes straight on. “What do you want, Alastair?”

Alastair was all blood red lips and teeth, his pale, sickly skin stretched over his gaunt cheekbones. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and when Alastair tilted his head and smiled, John tried not to flinch. “The famous John Winchester. Here in my prison.” He held his hand over his heart and pretended to swoon. “Heaven, I'm in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak,” he sang.

John tried to hold his ground as the men surrounded him and Alastair forced him to walk backwards. He kept track of the men in his periphery, even though he had nowhere to go if they attacked. “I ask again. What do you want?” 

Alastair tsked. “Careful, John. The monsters in here are harder to kill than the ones you’re used to.”

John’s shoulders stiffened and he looked to the men flanking Alastair’s sides. He wasn’t sure if this was going to be your average prison brawl or something darker, something more in line with the life he lived when he was a free man.

He spit out, “Christo.”

Alastair’s eyes were the only ones that turned black and no one else noticed. “Aren’t you a clever one, John. Not so clever to keep you out of here, I think.” Alastair grinned, his dark eyes pinning him in place. “I wonder why that is?” John briefly thought of Sam and Dean but refused to rise to the bait.

Alastair stepped forward again, forcing John to step back to avoid touching him. When John’s back hit the fence, Alastair put his hand by John’s head and curled his fingers through the links. John choked on the smell of his rotten breath. Alastair leaned to whisper in his ear. “Do you know what your boy, Sammy, is? I do.”

John pushed at Alastair’s chest, causing him to fall back a step. “That monster is not my son.”

Alastair laughed, a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth that he snapped shut to silence those that joined in. “Oh, so sensitive when it comes to your boys. Is it true what they say? Did you torture your favorite son and leave him for dead? What kind of daddy does that? Poor little Dean. ”

“Fuck you, you filthy piece of shit! You stay away from my son!”

The men around looked at one another, a few clenched their fists and flexed their biceps. When the largest of the group stepped forward and swung at John’s head, Alastair caught the fist midair before John even had time to duck.

“None of that,” Alastair chided. “That’s no way to treat our new friend.” The man looked confused but backed away. _Puppets_ , John thought, _all of them._ Led by a creature that would sooner wear their skin than protect them if he wanted to let John retaliate. _Let_ , being the operative word. John had no power here and he knew it. Alastair knew it. There wasn’t enough salt in the prison to keep this creature away, and if he wanted to snap John’s neck, he would.

He had nothing to lose. “What’s your game, Alastair?”

Alastair ignored the question. “One must wonder what Sammy’s getting up to with Daddy’s little girl. Even the angels sing about them. The ballad of The Boy King and his bitch. They say Dean enjoys killing more than Sammy does nowadays. It gets him nice and wet for his little brother.”

John punched Alastair on reflex, the blow causing Alastair's head to snap back. He smiled, teeth coated in blood, and turned his head to spit on the ground. He held an arm out to still his men. “No need for violence, John. We’re all gentleman here.”

John held his injured hand against his chest. “You know nothing about Dean!”

Alastair’s smug face turned into a mocking frown. “That’s sad. Sad sad sad. Your little girl is Sammy’s soldier now. And Dean is so very good for him.” The men around him leered but it was clear they had no idea what was going on. They shuffled their feet and kept looking around.

John had one weapon and nothing left to lose. _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_

Alastair's eyes widened, then he barked a laugh. “An exorcism. Really, John?” He was more amused than afraid.

John was undeterred. _“Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te...cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare...Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis...Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine...quem inferi tremunt...Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine.”_

The men surrounding them, Alastair’s goons and some of the other prisoners, turned their gazes from John to Alastair as Alastair grabbed at his throat. A funnel of dark smoke billowed from his mouth and his eyes went white and rolled back into his head. He made choking sounds and clawed at his skin. Those with crucifix necklaces and tattoos began to cross themselves, and a few of Alastair’s goons backed away.

 _“Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos,”_ John finished. 

Alastair dropped his head back as the tornado of dark smoke poured from his mouth and John thought he’d done it, but suddenly the dark funnel of smoke changed directions and Alastair, smiling, swallowed it up. He grinned and licked his lips, tasting his demon. The men around him went from menacing to afraid. With good reason, John thought.

“You know, John. It’s your professionalism that I admire,” Alastair stretched his neck from side to side, put a hand over his throat, worked his jaw around and forced a cough. “Nasty things, exorcisms. They always leave a metallic taste in my mouth.”

John’s pulse accelerated, he felt completely out of his depth. Alastair was something more than a demon. Something John had never seen.

Alastair spoke a few words into the ear of the man closest, and before the man turned to do what he was told, he looked at John. If John didn’t know any better, he would say the prisoner was afraid of _him_.

“As he breaks, so shall it break,” Alastair said, cryptically. “Who do you think will win the race for Dean’s soul? Heaven or Hell?” Alastair clapped a hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing it tight enough to cause pain but not bruise. He whispered into John’s ear, “My money is on the king.”

John heard a yell and looked up to see the man Alastair spoke to punch one of the guards. The other guards began hitting the man with their batons and kicking him in the sides until blood poured from his ears and nose. The prisoners surrounding the fight began to cheer and chant, the vicious sounds of skin on skin echoing through the yard. Alastair whispered into the ears of a few more of his men and they spread out, one heading to the guards, the others to men gathered in groups. Each man threw a punch, almost in synch, and the groups retaliated, throwing punches at the men, then at each other.

That’s when the riot began. Groups breaking apart and attacking anyone closest to them. An alarm sounded and the warden came over the PA and called for order. No one stopped. Five minutes into the brawl, the riots guards showed up and prisoners left and right were being shot with rubber bullets, tasered and beaten to the ground but the fighting continued.

John and Alastair stood alone, an island in a sea of violence. No one headed in their direction nor ventured near. Alastair smirked as he looked out on the carnage, then turned to John and said, “Welcome to hell. I won’t even give you the pleasure of dying.”

___________________

Dean thinks, not for the first time, that he has a stalker. Anytime he’s on his way to work, alone shopping at the grocery store, or hell, even watching TV, he sees him. Standing on the street, pushing an empty cart down the same aisle, a flash of reflection when the screen goes black for second. He’s always there. The weird little man with bed hair and an ugly trenchcoat. 

Sometimes he's focused totally on Dean, and other times he’s examining things around him. Dean saw him hold a cantaloupe for 5 minutes, turning it around, balancing it on one hand and then the other, sniffing it, licking it, before putting it back. It was weird and unhygienic, and strangely mesmerizing. 

Things have been getting weird for a while now. Dean hears static coming from radios that aren’t plugged in, lightbulbs explode in rooms he’s in all at once. He hears the sound of wings falling and folding around him. He can practically feel their weight. He’s checked the apartment for ghosts and other monsters, knows it’s not one of Sammy’s demons playing tricks because he’s pretty sure Sammy would smite them out of existence. He’s not sure how he knows that Sammy has that kind of power but he doesn’t question that it’s there.

That’s another thing: Sammy. He hasn’t told Sammy about his stalker. There’s something difficult to substantiate about the strange pull he feels towards the man. He can’t wrap his mind around it, but he likes the guy. There’s something soothing about knowing he’s there. He knows Sammy would never let them be friends but the desire is still there, just at the back of his head like a phantom itch.

He saw him one day when Sammy was driving them home from dinner. Sammy came home from school, all dimples and bright eyes, and told Dean they were going out to celebrate. He didn’t specify what and Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He didn’t miss the bloodstains he’d sometimes have to wash out of Sammy’s clothes.

The man was there, just outside their apartment, and he looked at Dean with such intensity that he became momentarily hypnotized. It took Sammy saying his name twice before he looked away.

“Dean, are you even listening to me?” Dean looked over at Sammy and saw his face darken. It was the kind of disapproval he feared so much.

Instead of panicking and making reassurances, Dean mumbled out, “Sorry, Sammy. I guess I’m a little tired.”

Sammy parked the car and turned in his seat to face him. He looked Dean over like he was searching for something, trying to reach in and examine his soul. He said slowly, “Did something happen today?”

“No, Sammy. Nothing happened. I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.” Dean had to force a smile and from the way Sammy’s eyes turned to slits, he noticed.

He reached over and grabbed Dean’s hand, pulled him across the bench seat and into his arms. “I just worry about you. I don’t want to find out something was wrong and you didn’t tell me.” He felt Sammy kiss the top of his head, and Dean lifted his eyes to meet Sammy’s intense stare.

“Everything’s fine, Sammy,” Dean lied, tightening his arms around his little brother. “You know I’d never keep anything from you. I love you.” The thought of lying to Sammy made his stomach drop and he didn’t know why he’d done it.

Sammy obviously wasn’t convinced but he pushed Dean away and got out of the car. Dean followed and just before he closed his door, he looked across the street and saw the man. Sammy followed his eyes but didn’t react. Dean realized, Sammy couldn’t see him. Sammy called his name once more and Dean had to force his eyes away.

When Sammy grabbed his hand and laced their fingers together, his grip was just short of painful. 

Dean wondered, if Sammy couldn’t see him, and he had special powers, was he going crazy?

___________________

There was something going on with Dean and Sam didn’t like it. Oh, he was obedient and bendable as ever, begging for Sam’s cock like he needed it to breathe. Sam would pound into him, card his fingers through his short hair and tug. Dean would tilt his head back, offer his throat for Sam to nibble and bite. Sam never drew blood but he always left a bruise.

Other times, when Sam had Dean riding his cock, he’d notice Dean would turn and look out the window, then blink in surprise. His hips would falter and Sam would have to pull him down for a kiss before he regained Dean’s full attention. He’d flip Dean over and fuck him fast and hard. Dean would shout out, obviously in pain, but Sam would stroke his cock hard and Dean would forget all about whatever it was as he came in Sam’s fist.

It made Sam furious. He stole a car, drove to Nevada, and killed three people in as many days. He wasn’t particular about the victim. He picked people at random on Las Vegas Blvd, a prostitute, a housewife, and pulled them away from the crowd and into an alleyway behind one of the hotels. He beat them to death with his hands, stole their jewelry and money, then left them for the cops to find. He wasn’t worried about security cameras or witnesses. These days, all Sam had to do to be invisible was let the part of him that was demon shift slightly outside his skin. The cameras would pick up nothing up but static.

Afterward, he broke into one of Las Vegas’ many foreclosed houses and washed up, tossed all his bloody clothes in a bag and called a demon to dispose of them. His rage wasn’t sated. He drove home, back to Dean, and had him over the back of the couch before he even said hello. Dean cried and begged him to slow down but Sam was relentless.

“You belong to me, Dean. Do you understand,” Sam growled.

“Yes, Sammy. Yours. Only yours.”

Dean’s legs were spread wide. The only thing holding him up was Sam’s cock. “You’re mine.” His pace was punishing and when he came, he barely gave Dean time to catch his breath before he pulled him into the bedroom and started all over.

Later, when Sam held a trembling, sweaty Dean in his arms, he attempted to prey on Dean’s weaknesses. “I don’t understand it, Dean. Aren’t you happy here? With me?”

Dean gripped him tighter around his waist and buried his face in Sam’s flushed chest. “Of course I am. I love you,” he protested.

Sam sighed. “You’ve been so distracted lately. You’re always looking out the window or watching TV. Is something wrong? I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Dean hesitated for just a second but it was long enough. Something had happened and he was hiding it. He knew Dean was lying to him.

“I guess I’m still adjusting to not hunting anymore. Sometimes I read things in the paper and I feel bad for not stopping it.”

Sam had to get away or he’d hurt Dean. He could force Dean to tell him the truth but Dean would never trust him again. He needed more than Dean’s obedience. More than his willingness to kill. He realized he needed Dean’s love. For the first time since they were children, he wasn’t sure he had it.

Pushing Dean away, he stood and started gathering up his clothes. He fumbled pushing his long legs into his jeans. “I know you’re lying to me. I don’t know why but you are. I just hope it’s not someone else.”

Dean flinched. “Of course not, Sammy. You know I’d never do that,” he protested. He moved to get up but Sam pushed his back on the bed.

“I need some time to think. You do,” he gestured vaguely around the room, “whatever it is that you do now.”

Dean started to protest but Sam left the room and slammed the door behind him. Dean knew better than to follow.

Sam looked around the apartment, more closely than he had in months, trying to find something, anything that would explain Dean’s behavior. There was nothing out of place, nothing that shouldn’t be there. Dean’s keys to the Impala were on the hook near the door. His leather jacket hung in the closet and his old hunting boots sat untouched at the bottom.

He checked the kitchen, opened drawers, even opened the lid to the trashcan. That’s when he saw it. Lightbulbs. Half a dozen broken lightbulbs. Sam almost put his fist through the wall. Someone or something was trying to communicate with Dean. And it was working. Even his time away in Las Vegas wasn’t enough to regain Dean’s obsessive focus. He didn’t seem panicked he was gone or reassured that he was back. Whatever this thing was, it had Dean in its clutches and was pulling him away.

Sam called a few of his more trustworthy demons and had them possess the neighbors and anyone who might come to the apartment. He put up invisible warding in every room, in the Impala, and on Dean’s amulet when he was sleeping. Everything natural or supernatural would shy away from Dean, unsure what it was about him that made them uneasy. It might make Dean’s life a little harder at the garage, but a few psychic prompts and those he wanted Dean to interact with would do so without setting off Dean’s alarm.

He remained on alert. Watched Dean’s eyes every time they’d drift and stare at an empty place. He never saw what he was looking at or what caused Dean's dazed-like trance, but he would and he’d make it beg for death. Sam would burn the world down before he let them take Dean away.


	4. Chapter 4

Stanford theology and ancient languages professor, Anson Grunfeld, began dreaming of fire; entire towns and cities ablaze with blinding light and suffocating heat. He saw the great forests of the world burn. The mossy fields of Malaysia's Cameron Highlands with its orchids and carnivorous plants, America’s Humboldt Redwoods, home to three of the world’s tallest trees, the massive tree ferns and cackling kookaburras of Great Otway National Park in Australia, Arashiyama Bamboo Grove in Japan, Ecuador’s Tandayapa Cloud Forest, Tsingy de Bemaraha National Park in Madagascar - he saw all of them turned to ash.

After fires he dreamt of storms; tornados, blizzards, hurricanes, months of endless pounding rain, nations along the equator covered in 10 feet of snow. People being torn apart in funnels of debris, frozen to the sidewalks outside their homes, pulled out to sea when the levees and seawalls broke.

Then it was earthquakes. Fault line chains all over the world ruptured at once, cracking the earth open and fracturing continents. Tsunamis wiped out coastlines, and when people fled inland, up mountains, they were overtaken by long-dormant volcanoes. The oceans turned to acid, and the ash and debris blacked out the sun. Everything died.

During one dream, Anson saw a man. He stood tall and proud in a green field surrounded by burning trees. The heat didn’t touch him. The smoke didn’t choke his lungs.

“Who are you,” Anson asked.

Ignoring his question, the man gestured to the surrounding wall of flames, pointed at the charcoal colored sky. “This is what will happen to your world if you let the angels win. I can fight them. I can prevent this. If you help me, together we can save the world.” His smile was cold in spite of his bright eyes and disarming dimples.

“How? Why me? Everything’s already gone.” All around him, all Anson could smell was death.

“This is just a dream, Anson. A vision of the future we can prevent.”

“Who are you,” Anson asked again.

The man’s smile widened and he said, “My name is Sam Winchester, and you are going to help me destroy heaven.”

Anson woke in a panic, his clothes and bedsheets soaked in sweat. His hands trembled and his heart beat so fast in his chest it hurt. He looked around his room, got up and ran to the window. He pulled back the curtains, unsure of what he’d find, and almost wept when he saw the faint glow of the rising sun illuminate the surrounding houses. People were just waking up, men and women climbing into cars to begin long commutes. A few jogged by his house, led by happy furry dogs. He looked up and saw a flock of birds perched on an electrical wire. The clean wind whipped through their feathers as they preened.

It was just a dream. The world was still alive.

Anson grew up going to church and spent his life studying religion, but he was never a believer. He's read religious texts from all over the world in the original language but never found more than people's need to use the divine as a way to explain the unknown. Old religions died out as societies became more sophisticated. People stopped sacrificing humans for rain, leaving out tributes for good harvests, dancing around fires to keep the forest spirits away. Religions cannibalized and morphed into one another but the basic tenet remained: Someone out there must know what's going on. 

As a teacher, Anson saw himself as purveyor of interesting mythology and folklore; the gods and goddesses, angels and demons of religious texts no more real to him than Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Captain America. People need something to believe in, and their faith is rewarded when their chosen deity affects and reflects their morality, sense of self, and connection to community. Anson didn’t hate religion. He thought it was a fundamental necessity for society. But gods and goddesses do not exist. There is no heaven or hell. 

Or so he thought, until the man from his dream walked into his 8am _Facing Evil in the Modern World_ class and sat down in the front row.

___________________

People stopped looking Dean in the eye. It took him a while to notice but when he did, everywhere he went, people looked away. Their personal space seemed to expand, so when he’d step close to hear them speak, they’d take a step back. When they did speak to him, they kept their eyes averted, focused on some place over his shoulder.

When walking down the street, instead of offering a small smile or acknowledging nod, people stepped around him and picked up their pace. When he’d go to lunch with his coworkers at the garage, the waitress would take everyone’s order but his, and Benny and Garth would have to call her back. It happened every single time.

People were never mean or antagonistic. Their behavior didn’t feel hostile or even directed at him. It was as if they couldn’t really see him or didn’t want to. He checked the house, the Impala and the garage for hex bags, read through books of lore for something that might make a person invisible or difficult to see but every text led to another text he couldn’t read. Bobby might be able to help but he couldn’t talk to him anymore.

For a moment, he thought about the man in the trench coat. He wondered if the man had done something to him, made Dean invisible like him. He couldn’t find any kind of monster or spell that had that kind of power. He never saw the man anymore. He was no longer seen by his invisible friend.

The people at the garage didn’t seem to be affected. Things went on like they normally do. Stories about wives and kids, bad jokes, complaints about customers not maintaining their cars, wistful daydreams about going away on exotic vacations. Nothing out of the ordinary. But when a customer dropped off a car, Benny or Garth had to be standing next to him, touching his shoulder, before he could get the customer to speak.

Thankfully, everything at home was normal. Sammy was friendly, attentive and affectionate. He seemed to go out of his way to touch Dean every chance he got. Dean was so desperate for human contact that each caress of his cheek, every reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, or kiss on the top of his head felt like a balm for his soul. He stopped going anywhere but work and asked Sammy to accompany him when he went to the store. Sammy was more than happy to do it. He said it meant he got to spend more time with his favorite person.

It made Dean feel conflicted about whatever it was that was happening to him. Sammy was totally focused on him all of the time. Even when he was studying, he’d sit on the couch next to Dean, offer him something to read, and take lots of breaks to kiss him.

“Sammy, can you see me,” he asked one day.

Sammy examined his face, his smile warm and full of love. “I always see you, Dean. You’re beautiful and you’re all mine.” It made Dean hot and cold all over, flush with relief. Sammy could still see him.

Sammy became the only person in the world that made being seen matter.

___________________

Sam’s spell was working perfectly. Too perfectly. 

People don’t realize how much meaningless interaction with strangers makes up the bulk of our human contact. It’s how we see and are seen. To lose that visibility, as Dean has, is to lose a sense of self impossible to replace.

Dean is by nature an affectionate person. He may bristle at the mention of “feelings” but get him out into the world and he spends all his time making people _feel_. He flirts, threatens, taunts, teases, manipulates, fights, lies to gain information, cheats to gain resources; all interactions that require a reaction from the target. To lose that is to lose a great portion of what makes Dean _Dean_.

It isn’t what Sam intended but it was necessary. Until he discovers what or who is trying to lure Dean away, he must keep him away from the world.

Sam’s power is growing but it has its limitations. He can force people to tell him the truth, demand the obedience of humans and demons, enter dreams, move objects and set fires with his mind, manipulate the elements and see the future. He’s still young, and without Azazel's guidance and absurd plans for him, finding his way to power on his own. It requires him to attack and destroy threats as they come. Threats like John and Bobby. Threats like Dean's mystery visitor. He can’t ignore it and hope he’ll be able to react in time when the thing chooses to reveal itself. He won’t risk Dean in the crossfire. So he doesn't end the spell.

But he's hurting Dean and he doesn't like it. Knowing it won't be forever is the only thing keeping him from demanding Dean tell him what he sees. He's thought about entering Dean's dreams but he knows he'd go on a killing spree if he found images and memories of Dean's past lovers. Or a longing to see John.

There's nothing Sam can do but wait and prepare. Take care of Dean. Take advantage of Dean’s increased obsession with him by going out with Brady. Find someone to kill.

And study for finals.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 
> 
> Sorry this has taken so long to update. Between RL and a back injury, I haven't had the focus to write. Thanks for hanging in there.

A visit from Gordon Walker was unexpected. Besides his lawyer, no one had come to see John since Ash, who told him Sam and Dean were back in Palo Alto and that things seemed quiet, murder-wise. He didn’t come out and say it - there were no illusions about privacy in prison - but John understood hunter code easily enough. Even so, he knew there was no way Sam had stopped killing. 

Gordon leaned in close to the plexiglass, propped up on his elbows with both hands holding the phone to his ear. His eyes were wild and fanatical as he looked at the guard, then back at John. “Things are getting bad out there, John. Real bad.”

John had heard of the hunter, knew about his sister and what Gordon did once he tracked down the thing she became. He understood the desire for revenge, but deeper still, the need to eradicate anything supernatural that was a threat to his family, even if the thing he destroyed wore the face of someone he loved. John wished he had the same foresight and courage. Knowing what he knows now, he would have drowned Sam in the bathtub when he was a baby. 

Keeping a hand fisted on the table in front of him, John asked, “How so?”

“I tracked down a dem…” Gordon’s eyes shifted to the visitor next to him. He began again. “Uh. A...a real bad person. Had ourselves a nice long chat. After a bit of persuasion, she told me something is coming. Something bad. And that Sam was at the head of it all.”

John nodded but didn’t reply. He’d had his suspicions about Sam since the fire. Sam was in the room when Mary burned to death, yet he didn’t get signed or suffer from smoke inhalation. What was more telling, his baby clothes didn’t smell like smoke. At the time, John brushed off the semi-conscious thought as grieving paranoia. He wished he had trusted his instincts.

“I tried talking to Bobby Singer but he says he’s out. Wants nothing to do with it. Told me to stay away from Sam and Dean if I knew what’s good for me.” Gordon paused, waiting for a reaction. John kept his expression blank and waited until Gordon continued without prompting. “You know what Sam is,” he finally asked.

John nodded again, looked over at the guard who was watching him too intently. _Demon_ , he surmised. One of Sam’s. “I’ve known for a while.”

“Then you know he’s a monster. You know he has to die.”

The guard’s hands flexed into fists, his eyes hard and angry. John got the impression that he would kill him them both if it weren’t for orders; Alastair’s or Sam’s - it didn’t matter. They’d keep John alive just to torture him. His world was now one of rage and fear, and the man responsible for his misery well beyond his reach. But maybe not Gordon’s. It would probably be a suicide mission but John would do anything to get Dean away from Sam. He had to save at least one of Mary’s sons.

He returned his eyes to Gordon and said cautiously, “That’s dangerous thinking. Sam is well-protected. Getting to him won’t be easy.”

Gordon grinned. “Easy, no, but not impossible. All monsters have a weakness.”

 _Dean_ , John thought. He shouldn’t be encouraging this. He’s risking what little bit of life he has left. Yet, he knew Dean was the key. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath he said, “Dean is his weakness. The only way to get to Sam is through Dean.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “How? Do you want me to kill him?”

John leaped from his chair and smashed a fist against the plexiglass. “Don’t even think it,” he hissed. No matter what Sam has forced Dean to do, Dean was still his son.

Gordon held up a hand in surrender, his other hand gripped tightly around the receiver. “Ok. I hear you. Nothing happens to Dean.” He visibly swallowed and licked his dry lips. “But I don’t get it. Why are you protecting him? Didn’t he help put you in here?”

The guard watching him walked over and whacked John in the back of his legs with his baton. “Sit down, Winchester, or your visiting hour is over.”

John winced in pain and lowered himself back into the chair. The guard glared, then returned to his post.

“Dean doesn’t get hurt. Understand? He’s as much a victim in this as everyone Sam’s killed. If anything happens to Dean, I’ll find a way to kill you myself.”

Gordon looked at him for a long, silent moment and John saw pity in his eyes. It was infuriating. He wondered if he should just tell Sam’s demon what Gordon was up to. Better send a demon to do his dirty work than risk Dean getting hurt. Still, he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Gordon was expendable.

He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you what I know, but nothing happens to Dean. No matter what. Dean stays safe.”

Gordon’s vicious smile was triumphant and mean. “I understand. Now tell me what I should do.”

___________________

This was one of Dean’s favorite dreams. It was really more of a polished memory; the sharp, dark edges smoothed out and glossed over to create a scene that is as close to Dean’s desire as his mind would allow. In it he saw a version of Sammy that was untouched by evil, still blessed with the incorruptible innocence of youth. Dean’s heart clung to the idea that somewhere deep inside, Sammy was good. This dream was a time before it all went to hell.

One summer, when he was fourteen and Sammy was ten, their father dumped them in a rotted out cabin by a lake. The drafty place had a single lumpy bed, barely functioning refrigerator and stove, and more than one snake in the toilet. The water heater never warmed up above room temperature and the pressure was barely a drizzle. Most of the food they ate was stolen from a Piggly Wiggly five-miles away. When it wasn't frozen burritos, it was fish caught in the lake and wild, possibly poisonous berries. They were perpetually sunburned and covered in mosquito bites. They swam, played cards, made up stories to tell each other in place of comic books and TV, and went to sleep in each other’s arms sharing the only sleeping bag they had. It was one of the best times of Dean’s life.

Dean returned to this place, this time, often when he slept. He’d sit on the shore and watch as Sammy laughed and splashed around, taunted and teased. Sammy’s dimpled smile was infectious, and Dean wanted to do whatever it took to keep Sammy looking so carefree.

“Come on, De,” Sammy called. “I won’t let the fishes eat your toes!” His childish giggle made Dean’s chest hurt. It was so untroubled. Sammy had already murdered someone by this age but Dean didn’t know it yet.

Dean laughed and moved to stand when a shadow fell over him. He looked up and into the blue eyes of his stalker.

“You don’t belong here,” he accused. “Who are you and why are you in my dream?”

“My name is Castiel and I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean looked the man over. His rumpled suit, ugly coat, messy hair. Not a harp in sight. Dean snorted. _Some angel._ “Bullshit. There’s no such thing.”

Castiel reached out, touched two fingers to his forehead, and the scene around him changed. They were standing in a park full of colorful flowers, lush green grass, and a man flying a kite. Dean looked around, confused. “This isn’t one of my dreams.”

“No,” Castiel said, “This is heaven.”

Dean huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Unless there’s an open bar and AC/DC doing a live set, this ain’t heaven.”

Castiel tilted his head, his expression confused but curious. “There are many heavens. I believed this one to be the safest to hide you from your brother. You are shielded here.”

“I’m dreaming. Sammy can’t see my dreams. Besides, I have nothing to hide from him.”

“Samuel is very powerful, capable of many terrible things. I know you have seen it.”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that, so he changed the subject. “Why can’t Sammy see you? And where have you been? It’s been weeks.”

“I have revealed myself only to you. You have not been able to see me because Samuel cast a spell on your amulet.” Castiel reached up and touched Dean’s amulet, but quickly pulled his hand back when Dean flinched and turned away.

“I thought you might be able to see me in other locations but it seems Samuel is more determined to isolate you than I anticipated. Your home is heavily warded, as well as your car, and your place of employment. I believe he has become suspicious of your actions.” 

Dean panicked. Did he do something to disappointment Sammy? Was it the letter he wrote to his father or driving Baby without permission? He knew he’d been distracted lately but enough that Sammy no longer trusted him? Then Castiel’s words sunk in. _Samuel cast a spell....heavily warded...amulet._ It all started to make sense. The weird non-responses he gets from people, waitresses and cashiers ignoring him, the way the world feels blurred at the edges, soft and out of focus. Sammy’s extra attentiveness. “Sammy, no,” he whispered. 

He turned his anger on Castiel. “If Sammy did that, he must have had a pretty good reason. Maybe he thinks you’re dangerous. Just because you say you’re a...a...an angel or whatever doesn’t make it so.”

Castiel stared at him for longer than appropriate. “You are very loyal, Dean Winchester. I do not believe Samuel is worthy of your faith.” Suddenly, the sky around them darkened and Castiel’s form flashed bright white. Held his arms out slightly, and Dean looked behind Castiel as a shadow of large wings appeared, outlined in the glow emanating from Castiel’s body.

Dean sucked in a breath and took a step back. “You’re an angel.” 

Castiel nodded.

“Why are you here?”

“I have come to save your soul, Dean Winchester. God has commanded it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “God huh? Commanded what?”

“You are going to help me stop your brother from starting the apocalypse.”

___________________

Gabriel has been around a long time. As the messenger of God, a lost son reborn to the Pagans, a Trickster punishing the wicked; he’s spent eons watching humans evolve and fumble their way across the earth. At first, he hoped observing them would give him answers. He wanted to know why they were worth the wrath that pit Father against Son, Brother against Brother. Why they were gifted with free will when it was that very thing that got Lucifer expelled from Heaven.

Over time, he began to understand.

Even during their worst times, when human and mother nature did what they do, they found refuge and courage in things Angels could never have conceived. When his Father failed to protect and provide for them, they created agriculture, medicine, mathematics, and science. They formed tribes, discovered languages, art, music, and dance. _Humor._ Some of the first cave paintings were essentially motivational posters that said _Lighten up, we got this._

Father would take credit for man’s ingenuity, say it was all part of a larger design; give man free will and watch them create a more perfect paradise. He would never admit that they did what they did out of necessity, a way to compensate for a physical form that is weak and vulnerable. Humans want to live well and long, and much of what they’ve made is an attempt to put off the inevitable. God created humans and humans die. The cruelest joke of all is seeing whole generations build wonders they won’t live long enough to enjoy.

God gave Angels immortality. He gave humanity imagination. It would have been nice if everyone was given both.

But, well, his Father is kind of an asshole.

Gabriel assumed the persona of the Trickster to be a part of humanity. He wanted to know why humans laugh and what it felt like. He wanted to taste chocolate and fuck. Drive a car, fly in an airplane, ride a rollercoaster - be in motion for no other reason than it feels good to move. He wanted to punish those that abused their freedom and relished in the suffering of others. He couldn’t contribute to the wonders of the world but he could right wrongs neglected by God.

His love for humanity is why he was seeking out the one man capable of destroying it all: Sam Winchester. He could only hope that he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his existence.

___________________

Sam hates.

He hated everyday mundane things; people who chew with their mouth open, embarrass their children in public, narrate their drive by reading off bumper stickers and road signs, talking to themselves out loud about their next move. 

Jess used to do it. _“We're just passing the exit for 24. I think we turn here. Oh, look! That Honda is leaving a place to park! They need to use their signals when they turn. I bet you I pissed off that guy.”_ He once timed how often she felt the need to mindlessly ramble and got up to 47 seconds of silence before she began again. It took a tremendous amount of willpower not to smash her face on the steering wheel.

The other things he hates are larger in scale and intensity. Things like John, and anyone who fucked with Dean. Lucifer loyalists taking out his demons. Angels in every variation and meat-suited incarnation. College professors late for a lecture that causes class to run over time. People who don't do what he says. 

He feels a special kind of hate when one or more of these things intersect. 

He was just leaving his 8 am statistics class, running 15 minutes late for Morality and the Law when one of the things he hates ran right into him. 

“ _Angel_ ,” Sam hissed, backing up into the nearest classroom, and pulling the short meat-suit by the front of its Stanford hoody. He wasn't afraid of the abomination but he needed an empty battleground, one without civilians with cellphones. He didn’t want to end up on YouTube for smiting the fucker. 

The Angel held his hands up, “Woah there, kiddo. Before you get all wrathy, let me explain why I’m here.” 

“I don’t care.” Sam held his hand out, ready to shred its grace with a flick of his wrist.

“Hey now. That’s just rude,” the Angel laughed, popping a peppermint candy in its mouth. “And currently won’t work on me. You’re strong, Samsquach, but not strong enough. Not yet.”

Sam’s fingers curled into fists. If he couldn’t smite the bastard, he could destroy his vessel. “I'm strong enough to trap you in your vessel and inflict every kind of wound capable of causing the most pain without spilling a precious drop of your grace.” 

The Angel smiled brightly, more amused than terrified. “Nice visuals, Samster. But before you get all torturey, let's talk about what my baby bro is up to and how it involves your big bro." 

Sam's hand shot out on instinct, grabbing the Angel by the throat and tossing it against the chalkboard, breaking the board and plaster wall behind it. The Angel looked both frightened and impressed. 

“Don't you fucking dare think of touching Dean.” 

“Woah, big guy. Slow down,” the Angel said, standing to adjust and dust off his clothes. He gave another toothy smile, the candy caught between his teeth. Is it really too much to ask people to close their mouths? “I'm not here to hurt you or Dean.” 

At the mention of his brother’s name, Sam growled. 

Seeing he wasn't getting the response he wanted, the Angel changed tactics. “My name is Gabriel.” 

“Gabriel? The Archangel?” Sam snorted and took a step back. Sam knew he was powerful and could easily take out lower level angels. Archangels were an entirely different thing. 

“The one and only,” Gabriel replied, twirling in place. His smug, self-satisfied smile infuriated Sam. 

“Great, so you're a super-sized flying dickbag. What do you want.” 

Gabriel's smile fell just a fraction, and Sam sensed he was about to see the real version of this creature. 

Gabriel sighed. “Azazel made a mistake when he created you. Until your mother came along, creating his progeny had been limited to blood exchange. A dash of demon blood on a baby's lips and a vial of baby's blood injected into Azazel, created a perfect one-sided telepathic link. The babies grew up big and strong, never knowing how much of everything they ever did was due to psychic prompts. All to make him a perfect army.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “I know all this. Azazel made demon deals with lots of women the year I was born.” 

“Yes, he did. And the year before that and the decade before that.” Gabriel hopped up on the teacher's desk and started rummaging around for a piece of paper. He began scribbling a series of symbols in a pentagram and cross design surrounded by fire. “Blood exchange was the only way he'd ever tried until you, or rather, until your mother.” 

Sam watched the man scribble, seemingly lost in the process. But Sam knew he would be able to attack at the first sign of a threat.

“Here,” Gabriel said, handing over the paper. Sam took it and his eyes widened when he understood what it meant. Gabriel nodded. “Anti-possession symbols, for demons and angels. You and big bro need to get tatted up.” 

Sam had been looking for this for over a year. It's part of why he'd enlisted Anson Grunfeld's help. Now an _Angel_ was handing it over without asking and for free? He suspected they hadn't gotten to the catch part yet. Sam stuck the symbol in his pocket and cleared his throat. “You were in the process of telling me my mother's life story...” 

Gabriel beamed. “Yes and no. Your story is far more interesting. You see, Azazel got greedy. He had an army of human drones wreaking havoc whenever he wanted but none of them were leadership material. He figured he needed to form a deeper bond, provide more... different...genetic material.” 

“So my slut mother spread her legs for him. Yeah, great romp down memory lane. We done here?” 

“Not quite yet, Sam. Do you know what your mother asked for when she agreed to birth one of Azazel’s children?” 

He had always wondered but the one person who knew for certain is dead and he wouldn't trust Azazel's word on anything. “No, what did she ask for?”

“Demons are tricky bastards, they never tell you the exact truth but are contractually required to follow the wish according to the letter. Your mother hated being a hunter…”

“What? Mary Campbell was a hunter?”

Gabriel nodded and began eating a Snickers bar. “Hunter born into a family of hunters. She wanted out of the life. And agreeing to fuck Azazel wasn't her first deal with the demon. Originally, she gave you up in exchange for John's life.”

John again. Somehow bad shit always goes back to John.

“So, what you're saying is her second deal was just to preserve her family?”

“Again, yes and no. What she specifically asked for was to never have to hunt again. Never imagined your dear old step-dad would lose his shit and take up hunting once Azazel was done with her.”

“You said Azazel made a mistake. The way he told it, I was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Gabriel snorted. “Was this before or after you locked him in his vessel and ripped out his vessel's spine?”

Sam shrugged and smirked.

“Azazel expected you to be powerful, just never more powerful than him. He wanted you to rule beside him. But he underestimated the danger of a human/demon hybrid. You are the son of a Prince of Hell with a human soul. When you unlock all your abilities, you will be unimaginably powerful.”

Sam knew much of this but the Prince of Hell bit was new. “Strong enough to take out an Archangel?”

It was Gabriel's turn to shrug and smirk. “Strong enough to take me and my brothers out.”

Satisfied, Sam nodded. He thought about what he just learned. Son of a demon with a human soul. “It's always about the souls, isn't it? Heaven, hell, they're all vying to claim the power contained within them. I think your Father told you to bow down to man as a warning. God was afraid of his own creation.”

Gabriel stopped chewing and blinked up in surprise. “Yes, I think you're right.”

“That still doesn't tell me why you're here and what this has to do with Dean.”

“I'll tell you anything you want to know but I'd like you to answer a question first.”

Sam looked up at the clock. He was missing his class. He'd have to bug Brady for notes but that might work in his favor if he did it at home while Dean eavesdropped. “Ask away.”

“Why aren't you going after hell? You know you have the support of the majority of the demon army. It wouldn't take much manipulation to convince the angels you want to be a hammer for the good guys. You could destroy them both by pitting them against each other.”

Sam leaned against one of the desks and examined the Angel. He wasn't sure whose side he was on but he could be an asset - whether he wanted to be or not. _Don't walk into a lion's den smelling like veal if you want to live a long, happy life._ “Why would I want to rule heaven and hell when I can rule over the one thing they both fight over - humanity. They're right to think it's all about the souls, just wrong in their use as a commodity. Humanity is God's greatest creation, and they've become so without his help. They're more capable of creating God-like destruction than God has been in a very long time. If there's a battle between heaven and hell, my side is with those being fought over.”

Gabriel looked confused. “You want to...help mankind? You're a serial killer.”

Sam laughed out loud. “Silly, angel. You lot are happy fighting over the scraps. I plan on destroying you both and keeping all that power for myself. The small percentage of humans I kill for pleasure won't even register. Anyway, back to Dean and why you're here.”

Gabriel looked around as if needing time to collect himself or plan an escape route in case Sam didn't like what he had to say.

“My little brother, Castiel, has taken an interest in Dean.”

Sam tossed his book bag on the floor and punched his hand into the wall. He wasn't aware that he broke it, nor of the shock on Gabriel's face the second the wounds disappeared. “ _Castiel_ ,” he seethed. “I should have known.”

“Yes, he's an obedient little bitch. And from what little I can gather on Angel radio, they think Dean has a role to play in the Apocalypse.”

“From what you gather? I thought they were your people. Their mindless hivemind is your mindless hivemind.”

“Please, I hate those dickbags as much as you. I've been in Angel witness protection since Daddy booted Lucifer to the cage.”

“So you're a Lucifer loyalist?”

“Oh, hells no! I don't want anything to do with any of them.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I don't want to see either faction win, and you've been so caught up in fucking Dean, you don't realize he is the key to everything. Lose him and you lose this war.”

“I'm well aware of what Dean has to do to stop me. I keep him on a short leash because of it.”

“If my nerdy pencil-pushing brother has found a way to reach him through your wards, your leash isn't short enough.”

Sam huffed in frustration. He knew something was after Dean but he had underestimated the Angel's resourcefulness. He'd dip the fucker in holy fire next time he saw him. Returning his attention to Gabriel, he asked, “What's your part in all this? What do you think you're going to get out of it?”

“I want the world to keep spinning and be left alone to do my work.” A lollipop appeared out of thin air and the archangel put it in his mouth.

“Your work? What, as the messenger of God?” 

“No, my work as Loki.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Loki? You're _also_ Loki?”

“Guilty as charged.” Gabriel looked over at the desk he was leaning on and picked up a copy of Anson Grunfeld's latest book, _Getting to know the lesser Gods and Goddesses_. As he flipped through the book he said, “I know what you've got that professor searching for. He may find the tablets but he won't be able to read them. I can help you with that.”

“You can read them,” Sam asked. 

“No, but I can take you to the prophet who can.”

Sam didn't respond, his mind too full of things he needed to research; Princes of Hell, pagan gods, prophets, better warding for Dean. He hated to admit it but the help of an archangel would come in handy. 

Interrupting his musings, Gabriel asked, “If you don't want to rule over heaven and hell, why are you accumulating all this lore and knowledge that's meant to do just that.” 

“I don't want the attention of my people to be divided. They must serve me for the pleasure and honor it is, not as a means to get into heaven or escape hell.” 

“So, you're studying to become a lawyer to rule over mankind,” Gabriel asked, cautiously. 

“Studying to be a lawyer is just one step in a long line. Plenty of beings have power but few wield it correctly. First, I'm a lawyer, then governor, Senator…President. Humans can't tell the difference between good men and good propaganda. Fewer still even care. I won't be the first serial killer to serve in the White House.”

“You want to run the government?”

“No, I will use the government to set up my kingdom.”

“You want to be a King?”

“No, I'm going to become God.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean’s hands hovered just above his shoulders, his fingers clasped tightly to the silver chain that held Sammy's amulet. He wasn't sure how long he stood in front of his open work locker, heart pounding and palms damp; it felt like hours. He didn't know if he had the courage to take it off, but if the angel wasn't lying, he wanted - no, needed - to know. Was Sammy the reason he felt as if he was fading away? Did Sammy lock him up, as effective as manacles on his wrists, in his own day-to-day life? Visible but not seen, heard but not listened to? Before he asked why, he needed to know if it was true.

Shoring up his courage, he lifted the necklace the last few inches, then swiftly hung it on a hook and shut his locker, perfunctorily spinning the padlock dial. He didn’t know what he expected - a surge of power leaching out of him, some kind of magic light show that ended in a cloud of smoke, the feeling of a great weight being lifted off of his shoulders? Whatever he imagined, the nothingness that followed felt like a let down and made him question why he was listening to a crazy angel in the first place.

He finished buttoning up his oil-stained coveralls and headed into the shop. Benny was there with his usual warm smile, waving a greasy wrench and knocking on the hood of the old Ford they had begun to restore the day before. Dean returned his greeting with a nod, bypassing the garage and heading to the break room. Garth was at the coffee pot, carafe in one hand and mug in the other, as he laughed into a cell phone that was pinched between his shoulder and ear.

“Oh, baby,” he heard Garth say, “You know I love you more than my momma's fresh apple pie.” He turned and noticed Dean, set the carafe back on the coffee pot, and handed Dean the cup he just poured. He gave Dean a quick once-over, and his cheerful expression morphed into concern. “Honey, I'm gonna have to call you back. Dean just got here and he's looking like he lost his puppy.” He grinned at Dean when Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Alright, I love you too. Bye bye now…Yes, I can't wait to see you too,” he chuckled,”...I've really gotta go...” He held the phone out, blew an air kiss at it, then shouted “bye” again. Dean stifled an eye roll.

Garth turned to Dean with a sheepish grin, lifted his phone and waved it a bit. “Ah, you know how she gets,” he said with blush. “The closer to Beth's delivery date, the more affectionate she becomes. You weren't around when Garth Jr was born, but let me tell you, there were times I was so exhausted from her loving I volunteered to work overtime.”

Dean tried not to grimace, all too aware of Garth’s lack of boundaries and tendency to overshare. Instead, he lifted up his coffee mug and said, “Thanks.”

Garth looked Dean over thoughtfully. “What’s going on with you? You and Sam have a fight?”

Garth was annoyingly observant for someone who played up his dumb country boy persona. It’s what made him so useful and dangerous. His easy-going charm had a way of disarming their angrier customers who didn’t understand that it’s expensive to fix a car that never had its oil changed. A few Garth “aww shucks” and they would be apologizing for being rude. His observations about his relationship with Sammy hit uncomfortably close to home.

“No, nothing like that. Had trouble sleeping is all,” Dean replied, forcing a smile. Garth didn't look convinced.

Dean licked his lips and raised his hand to his throat, hyper-aware of the absence of his necklace. “Hey, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind me watching the counter today. I’m not sure I should be under two tons of steel after getting so little sleep.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Garth reached over to pat him on the shoulder and Dean had to force himself not to flinch. He’d gotten paranoid about letting anyone but Sammy touch him; it’s as if he would _know_ and no good could come from making him angry. Dean smiled and hoped it was enough to cover up his response.

Garth gave him one more careful look before heading to the garage. The relief Dean felt for not having to explain himself washed over him, reminding him why he asked in the first place. Ever since he learned of Sammy’s crimes he had felt so disconnected from everyone like he was living in an alternate but parallel universe. He could see them but they couldn't see him. It seems that is exactly how Sammy wanted it.

Dean took his coffee to the front office and turned the closed sign to open. The first appointment was scheduled at 8:30 with a woman who crashed her car more often than people change lanes. After driving her red Maserati into a parking meter, Dean was certain she couldn't look directly at him as he explained they couldn't sue the city for where the meter was placed. She talked to his shoulder and looked pained every time Dean tried to calm her down. He had given up and gone and gotten Garth to give her an estimate. Now she was coming back because she backed into a neighbor's mailbox and dented her fender. It would be the first real test of what effect, if any, not wearing the amulet had.

The bell over the glass door jingled and Dean looked up expecting to see an overly groomed woman in expensive clothes who happened to be the worst driver on the West Coast. Instead, it was an African-American man who looked around the shop, scoping the place like he was expecting something to jump out at him. _Hunter._ Dean's hackles rose and he reached for a gun that wasn't there.

“Hey, you wouldn't happen Dean Winchester?”

Dean tipped his chin up and glared. “Who's asking?”

The man stepped forward and held out his hand. When Dean ignored it, never taking his eyes of the man’s face, the man shrugged and stuck his hands in his pocket. _See ma, totally defenseless._ Yeah right.

“I've heard a lot about you. All good things I promise. The name is Gordon Walker. I'm an old friend of Ellen Harvelle. She told me I should look you up if ever I found myself in California.”

Dean was positive Ellen had said no such thing.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Walker?”

“All right. Right to business. Ellen said you were direct. See there's this group of vampires that’s holed up right outside of town. I thought you being the famous Dean Winchester and all…”

Dean held up his hand. “I'm going to stop you right there. I'm not a Hunter anymore and I don't want anything to do with whatever trouble you found yourself in. If Ellen did send you, she'd know enough to tell you that herself. I. Am. Out. Contact the Roadhouse. I'm sure there's some other hunter in the area dumb enough to go off with a random stranger into a life or death situation.”

The man blinked, clearly surprised, but quickly recovered. “Ok, then. Maybe you'd feel differently if Sam came along. I hear he's quite a killer in his own right.”

The ugly way he said it made Dean's fingers clenched into fists and it was all he could do to stop himself from jumping over the counter and punching the man. “Sammy doesn't hunt anymore either. You can turn around and forget you ever heard of us.”

The smile vanished from the man’s face. “So that’s how it is.”

With a curt, dismissive nod, Dean replied. “That’s how it is.”

Before the man had a chance to escalate things, the woman Dean had been expecting walked in, completely oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Dean!,” she shrieked. “You’re here! I missed seeing you last time.”

Dean _was_ there last time, which meant on top of whatever trouble Gordon Walker had in mind, the angel had been telling the truth. Sammy spelled his amulet.

“Margot, good to see,” he replied, dismissing Gordon Walker without so much as a go fuck yourself. The hunter took the hint because he tipped an invisible hat at Dean’s customer and left without looking back.

As Margot starting rambling on about how accident prone she was, fishing for compliments as if being a danger on the road is attractive, Dean’s mind raced over all the possible reasons Sammy might have for not trusting him. He drove baby without permission, and there was that letter to his dad, but that was months ago. What would drive him to so mistrust Dean now that he felt he had to put a spell on him?

Whatever the reason, Sammy had some explaining to do. And Dean would make damn sure he got answers.

That is, if Sammy was up for talking, and he felt Dean had a right to know. He’d get his answers but he would ask politely.

He didn’t want to make it worse by making demands.

___________________

As Castiel watched the man slink away from the automotive shop where Dean Winchester worked, he thought over times when humans made similarly poor life choices.

He remembered when Greek philosopher Heraclitus was devoured by dogs after smearing himself with cow manure in an attempt to cure his edema.

A death he always thought his brother Gabriel would appreciate, he remembered when Sigurd the Mighty strapped the head of his enemy, Máel Brigte, to his horse's saddle, and Brigte's teeth rubbed against Sigurd's leg as he rode, causing a fatal infection.

Edward II of England, who, after being deposed by his wife Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer, was murdered by having a horn pushed into his anus through which a red-hot iron was inserted, burning out his internal organs.

Castiel thought Gordon Walker would be better served by any number of these deaths than what lay in store for him at the hands of Samuel Winchester. There would be no good ending for him.

Walker set up surveillance in an empty warehouse across the street and watched Dean’s comings and goings through the scope of a high powered rifle. Castiel had not yet received orders to disarm the man, so he waited and watched, hoping his Father would command him to intervene. 

Though he was a murderer, he liked Dean Winchester. In spite of the dark cloud cast over him by the Abomination, his soul was still the brightest and most righteous Castiel had ever seen. It was little wonder then, that his Father had ordered him to make contact and act as guardian. Dean Winchester was worth saving.

A thrill of alarm shot through him as Samuel Winchester turned onto the street and walked toward the busy shop. Before he entered the building, he stopped as if having heard his name called, and pivoted toward where Castiel was standing invisible and unseen. Unseen to everyone but the monster Dean Winchester called brother. From the gleam in his eye, he knew Castiel was there, and Castiel quickly realized there were ways even angels feared to die.

He felt a dark presence touch his grace and his wings trembled in fear. Shards of pain pierced his skull, sending him to his knees. He screamed in agony as fingers gripped him tight, pulling at his grace, and he collapsed on his side feeling terror slowly begin to devour him.

A trumpet sounded in heaven and Castiel looked up to see Sam blink in surprise, then turn his head upward. Castiel found himself being pulled from the earth, the ground beneath him swallowed by a blinding light as Sam howled in rage. 

Before he was dropped at his Father’s feet, Castiel heard a voice in his head.

_This isn’t over, angel. Your God can’t protect you forever._

He felt a blackness pour over him as cold and blistering as dry ice. It receded only when he heard his Father’s voice.

“You’re safe, my child. Your job is done. I’ll watch over Dean for now.”

Castiel gasped in relief though the dread remained. He didn’t want to abandon his mission to save Dean Winchester but he needed help.

Gordon Walker's fate was between him and God.

___________________

Gordon kept the rifle trained on Sam as he entered the auto shop. A lesser man might pull the trigger, rid himself of the trouble, but he wanted to see for himself if the rumors of his demonic possession were true. There were hunters who believed the only evil in Sam was his soul, that he was born rotten, but Gordon knew from first-hand experience that monsters are made by other monsters. If Sam had a master, he would be foolish not to take them both out.

Another possibility was that Sam was just insane. When he first appeared on the street, he looked like your everyday average college kid, backpack slung over his shoulder and wireless headphones covering his ears. Something must have spooked him, or maybe he just sensed Gordon was there, because he stopped and stared at the wall outside his hiding place, and his emotions went from anger to delight to rage. He was just short of shaking his fists at heaven.

It was odd but totally in line with what hunters were saying. Sam was volatile and dangerous and needed to die. If he was going to have any chance at stopping him he needed Dean.

Dean Winchester was the key. The good guys Trojan Horse. The only person alive with the power to stop him. And once Sam was dead, Dean would need to die too. 

He just needed patience. His time to save the world would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been a year since I updated this. I'm so sorry for the wait. I'm still plotting out the last few chapters, so I can't say when it will be done. However it will get finished. Thanks for you patience and thanks for reading. Comments and kudos make my day!


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